


Memories

by Amygdala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Doctor Castiel, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, M/M, Origin Story, Protective Dean Winchester, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-27 19:59:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amygdala/pseuds/Amygdala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate universe where Dean saves Castiel on a routine hunt.  Castiel decides he wants to go with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First contact

Deans first meeting with him was as most he makes on a hunt. The man kneels on the ground, skin sticky and discolored from the blood of the chestnut haired woman lying lifelessly in his arms. The man's gaze travels to the open wound on the woman's neck. He blinks slowly, then moves his eyes to Dean himself, who stands over them, a body of tightly held caution. The man's hopelessly blue eyes are blown wide with shock and pain, and Dean winces slightly at the intensity. That look is one he would never grow accustomed to, no matter how many different faces he witnessed it from. 

Dean purposefully diverts his view to the decapitated head near the grating in the concrete. There is a trail of blood ribboning from the neck, leaving a record of the head's path when Dean had unceremoniously separated it from its host. Dean found this easier to look at than the man in front of him. 

“What was it?”

The man's voice was all dry chalk dust and eerie calm. Calm is usually the last thing people are after the spontaneous decapitation show. 

“Vampire,” Dean spat in the direction of the unsheathed fangs. The man glanced at them briefly and seemed to surprisingly take the answer in stride. 

“And you were here to kill him because...”

“I'm a hunter,” Dean recited automatically. The man's eyes narrowed in response, but not distrustfully. Dean took this as a positive sign. 

“Look, I need you to tell me where you've been, what you've seen, anything weird...” he began, motioning his hands as he put the technical process in order out loud.

“Why?”

Dean turned and raised his eyebrow at the man seated below him. Was this guy really going to make him play twenty questions after Dean had just barely saved him from the depths of hell?

“Because,” Dean said pointedly, “these things don't fly solo and home base is somewhere nearby.” 

The man's expression revealed a critical realization before he returned his gaze to the soulless body held loosely in his arms. His eyes softened for a moment into an almost imperceptible emotion, before slowly icing over as he slid the body to the cold concretel. He moved to raise himself, shakily at first but with resolve as he straightened to his full height, just barely under Dean's own. 

“I'm going with you,” he demanded, dark brows knitted together, daring Dean to argue. 

Oh, he dared.

“The hell you are,” he shot back. “This is not a fucking tea party, princess. The dress code is not creepy business casual.” He waved his arm, wildly gesturing at the man's bloody tie and trench-coat with the machete in his own hand. A drop or two might have flown off the blade, but it was impossible to tell the direction with the red coating already splattered across everything nearby. 

“You're taking me with you, or I'm not telling you where they are,” the man vowed as he stepped towards Dean for emphasis. They were suddenly closer than what Dean considered “normal” for friendly conversation. His first thought was to take a step back, but he would be damned if he was going to look in any way intimidated by this small, bloody businessman. 

“Do you understand what you're asking for here?” Dean growled, leaning into his scowl and pointing his machete at the corpse beside them. 

“How could you think that I don't?”

The man's voice was level, but the edges were laced with anger, agony, or apathy . Dean could not tell which. Maybe it was all three. 

This man had just witnessed someone, probably his wife or girlfriend, being murdered right in front of him. 

Dean felt the air being pulled from his lungs as his hostility drained from the clouded emotions in the air. He wasn't cut out for this. He did not sign up for dealing with people. He signed up for destroying monsters. He raised his open hand to his forehead, rubbing and willing away the impending migraine he could sense approaching. 

“Whatever, fine,” he scoffed. “Let's go fulfill your death wish. But there's no way you're going anywhere looking like that.”

* * *

Dean hammered away against his keyboard, searching for any clue he could find. He could hear the soft spray of the shower, from the bathroom. It had been some time since he had sent the man in there to clean himself up, but he knew there was plenty more to wash away besides the blood. Dean hoped he could find something, anything that would point him in the right direction before the man came out, but he knew there would be nothing. 

There had been the girl behind the bakery, the guy by the auto-shop, another girl downtown, but nothing in common. There was nothing here to suggest it wasn't just random killings. And random killings make a trail hard to find. 

This hard-head was his only lead.

He sighed and leaned back, tipping his chair. This job was already complicated enough without the blue eyed death wish mucking things up. Trauma can only excuse so much rude behavior. Most people are just grateful and ready to get away from him and anything else to do with the supernatural. This guy had some kind of crazy nerve imposing on him like this. 

The sound of the tap faded into the quiet of the rest of the motel room. Dean shut the laptop with a soft, plastic snap and shoved his chair away from the small wooden table to face the door. It was going to take a bit of maneuvering to make the most of this situation.

The man walked out rubbing a white towel into his dark hair, the t-shirt and jeans Dean had loaned just a bit too baggy. He looked to be in this thirties, like a boring family man accountant. For the most part, he at least looked way better than when he'd went into the bathroom. Dean leaned over in his chair, ready to begin prying the information away from this salaryman. 

“So, dude—” 

“Castiel,” interrupted the man, looking up from his furious towel wringing. 

“Casawhatsit?” questioned Dean, frowning.

“Castiel. It is my name,” he responded, dropping the towel into the nearby hamper, and turning to give Dean his full attention.

“Ooookay, Castiel,” Dean said slowly, testing the odd name. Not that this his odd name mattered at all in this situation. “So—”

“And your name?” Castiel interrupted again. Dean rolled his eyes.

“It's Dean. Look are you going to give me the info or are we just going to dance all night?” he rushed, impatiently. 

Castiel tiled his head slight, the effect quizzical. “Why would we dance? Does that help?”

Castiel's expression revealed that he was dead serious. Of course Dean had picked up a weirdo. This guy is awfully damn calm for all that he's seen tonight.

“Look just tell me what you know,” Dean said, attempting to redirect the conversation to something productive once more. 

“If I tell you, you'll just leave me behind,” replied Castiel, managing to sound almost petulant despite his voice that Dean was convinced was composed of primarily gravel. 

Dean exhaled slowly as he brought his hand back to his migraine, soothing his building frustration and composing himself to deal properly with this complication. Castiel just stared silently, his excessive patience upping his weirdness factor in Dean's eyes. 

“My plan tonight is to get some rest tonight and go crashing the nest in the morning, when they're weak. You can come with me then,” he explained. Castiel continued staring unflinchingly in Dean's direction, obviously unconvinced. Dean exhaled again and brought his eyes up to meet the chilling visage.

“Castiel, I will not go without you, but I need to make a plan,” he said, with a sturdy gaze and practiced ease. 

Castiel stayed still for a moment more, before his muscles visibly relaxed, his combative state loosened temporarily. Dean could now see the weariness in this man's body. The dark circles under his eyes suggested that not all of it was from the events tonight. 

“I think what you are seeking may be at the hospital. There have been some...” Castiel hesitated. “Some strange occurrences.” 

“Such as?”

“Such as a depleted blood supply. I assume that is relevant to this issue.” He paused considerately before continuing, “And I think that there might have been those there who held a grudge against me, enough to come after me tonight.” 

“Man, what the hell did you do to make people at a hospital angry at you?” Dean inquired, almost amused. 

“It is not of import,” Castiel insisted. Weirdness factor up another level. 

“Well, whatever,” Dean replied, eager to on and push his plan forward. “You can sleep in the bed. I can sleep on the couch after I get some basic outlines of what's going to happen tomorrow for us ready.” 

Castiel looked hesitant once again at Dean's suggestion.

“Look dude, you and I both know you need some sleep or you're going to collapse two feet outside of that door,” Dean lectured, pointing his finger at the hotel room exit. “The least you can do is listen to me right now. I know what I'm doing here.” 

Castiel considered the words, and seemed to their points agreeable, as his muscles relaxed even farther. He glanced towards the bed, but turned back towards Dean before moving to sleep. 

“Thank you, Dean, for saving my life,” he announced, with pure sincerity dripping from his words. 

“Uh, sure dude,” stammered Dean, his big-man-in-charge persona faltering for a moment. Castiel nodded towards them then set off to bury himself in the blankets. Dean opened his laptop back up and tapping away at the keyboard, the sound of the keys soothing like a lullaby. 

Within minutes Castiel had given into the exhaustion that had plagued his body. Dean listened to the evening of Castiel's breath, the signs of a deep sleep. With that as his signal, Dean pried himself quietly from his chair and proceeded out the front door with only one short glance back to make sure he was unseen.

* * *

 

Clearly this hadn't been one of Dean's better thought out plans. He stood door of his motel room, machete clutched in one hand, his other hand hanging at his side with blood dripping from a sizable gash in his forearm. His body had definitely seen better days, but also worse for that matter. He was now faced with the decision of opening the door, or keeping his weapon in hand and ready to go. His foggy internal debate, however, was silenced by the door flinging itself open in front of him.

In the doorway opposite him stood Castiel, poised as though about to take flight, hair spreading itself out in a million different directions. Apparently he had just woken up. Good timing. 

Castiel took once glance up and down to ascertain Dean's status, before setting his mouth in a hard line. He reached and pulled the machete from Dean's hands while simultaneous lifting his harm to drag it around his own shoulders. Castiel's thinner frame pressed up against Dean's own as he managed to shift most of their weight to himself, guiding Dean back into the motel and into the nearby chair. Dean relished in the relief of having all of his weight off of his leg.

“Do you have a first-aid kit?” requested, sounding business like. His voice and mannerisms told Dean that he was in control of this situation. 

“In the car,” Dean said, pulling his keys out of his pocket with his good hand. Castiel snatched them wordlessly and directed himself to the parking lot. Dean's lack of sleep and injuries felt heavy on his eyelids. His thoughts melted into each other, backed up behind a strong urge to retrieve his weapon. 

“Dean, I'm going to need to to stay awake,” urged Castiel, who had suddenly appeared in front of him again, with medical supplies in tow. 

“Yeah yeah,” Dean wheezed. “s'fine, happens all the time.” Castiel frowned wordlessly, opting instead to move towards Dean's injuries. He grabbed Dean's good hand, shoving a patch of gauze into it and pressing it firmly to the gash on his other arm. 

“Can you hold this here?” Castiel stressed putting slightly more pressure on Dean's hand. 

“Yeah, I got it,” Dean groaned. Dean felt the warmth of Castiel's hand leave his own as he moved to try to examine other injuries. 

“Keep talking to me,” Castiel commanded authoritatively, now moving with scissors to Dean's jeans to access his leg. 

“Dude if you wanted my pants off all you had to do is say so,” Dean jeered drowsily. 

“This is easier and more efficient,” Castiel pointed out matter of fact. No sense of humor on this one. 

“Ruins my jeans though,” Dean nagged down at Castiel ripping the fabric away from his legs.

“You could turn them into shorts,” Castiel supplied helpfully.

“I don't do shorts,” scowled Dean. “Nobody man has ever looked cool in shorts.” 

“And I'm sure looking cool is the biggest concern in your field,” quipped Castiel. Was that sarcasm Dean detected?

“What do you know anyway?” Dean huffed, annoyed at the jab at his decision making. 

“I know this,” said Castiel, gesturing at Dean's body. “I am a doctor.” 

Oh, that would make sense, thought Dean. He wondered how that had not occurred to him before. He pondered what else he had missed the past few days. Clearly he was rusting a little if the results of this job had anything to say. 

“You went without me,” Castiel spoke, his voice even, but his displeasure obvious.

“Yeah, I did,” started Dean, defensively. He didn't get paid enough for this. He didn't get paid at all.

“You lied to me,” stated Castiel, now clearly accusatory even as he continued working without pause. With that, Dean felt his frustration with this clearly insane individual boiling over. 

“Of course I lied to you,” Dean snarled. “Are you really stupid or something? Did you think I was going to let you come with me to a nest of vampires? Do you know what would happen if I gave into your little temper tantrum? You would be dead, Castiel. You would be lying on the ground at the hospital with your neck ripped out. So yes, I lied to you. That's what I do, I lie.” He felt his blood heating up, fueling his own anger. “Is this really so hard to understand? Do you want to be dead like that woman you were holding?” 

“Lessen your pressure,” directed Castiel, leaving Dean's leg to pull at the hand that Dean had unconsciously started pushing harder into the wound on his arm. Satisfied with Dean's compliance, he returned to his bandaging. Dean was left in the silence, working to steady his breath and control his temper. He barely knew this guy and he was somehow already completely under his skin. 

“You're very kind,” Castiel spoke softly, fastening clips to finish the bandage on Dean's leg. 

Instantly, Dean's anger was let out like a deflating balloon, leaving behind some sort of confusion and unsatisfaction at Castiel's response to his outburst. 

“Dude I don't think you have all your marbles,” asserted Dean, eyebrows deepening into a grimace. 

“Possibly not,” admitted Castiel, and Dean could swear he could hear the corner of a smile tucked between those words. 

* * *

 

Dean woke the near the morning the next day, soreness set into his bones, but all of his limbs functional. The bandaging was as professional as Castiel had claimed he was, and Dean was grateful for at least that. His guest however, had seemingly vacated the motel room in the night. All for the best, Dean though. It saved him the trouble of trying to get rid of the guy. 

Dean felt his body creaking as he pulled himself out of the bed and gathered his things. There was little enough inside for him to carry out to his car. It seemed Castiel had put the medical supplies away himself before leaving. At least the guy was considerate in that regard. 

Dean hauled his duffel onto his shoulder, walking out the door and closing of the motel room, ready to move on from this patchwork of a job. He popped the trunk often to toss the bag in, but stopped, noticing a foreign bag already there, invading his car's space. 

Careful and suspicious of possibly dubious contents, he reached down and unzipped the strange bag. On the top of the contents was a plain white button down. 

“I told you,” Castiel assured from somewhere behind him. “I'm going with you.”

Dean resisted the urge to turn around and punch his doctor, but just barely.


	2. Adjustments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean attempts to keep Castiel out of his life. it doesn't work.

“I'm ready whenever you are,” chimed the remarkably chipper Castiel, for how early it was in the morning. Dean jumped, banging his head slightly on the trunk lid where he had leaned into in an attempt to remove Castiel's suitcase once again. Dean cursed under his breath, rubbing the top of his skull tenderly where he assumed a knot would be showing up later. Castiel had the worst habit of simply “appearing” out of thin air when Dean was trying to execute his strategy. 

It had been many weeks and many more jobs since Dean had picked up the stray doctor with startling blue eyes and startling low self preservation instincts. So far, his efforts to be rid of him had all been frustratingly unsuccessful. 

Dean noted the two steaming coffee cups in each of Castiel's hands. With that kind of greeting in the morning, he did find his own attempts growing less and less enthusiastic each day. 

There was also the whole medical proficiency perk wrapped in with the Castiel package. The stitches from yesterday's kitsune encounter on his right arm were quite obviously a million times better than they would have, had Dean tried to complete the procedure himself. Medical abilities were pretty indispensable in the world of hunters, and most would be grateful to have that kind of skill set on their team. 

Dean just wished he was back on the highway with no soul in sight for a hundred miles.

* * *

Their next destination led the two of them to the Willow, a quaint little hotel to complement the hole in the wall it was located in. Dean had been kind enough to start booking rooms with two queens after watching Castiel attempt to sleep on lumpy couches and hard floors for the first few nights. This by no means meant he accepted Castiel's presence, but he wasn't heartless after all. 

“I'm going to go gather some information,” Dean declared, dropping his duffel onto one of the beds, which looked entirely too spongy for his tastes. 

“I don't suppose this time you'll bring me with you?” Castiel inquired, not looking up from the bag he had begun to unpack in preparation for a shower. 

Dean ignored him and withdrew into the hallway outside their room. He had already answered that question from Castiel many times before. There was little point in trying to train someone who was most likely realize soon that hunting was not a good career path. 

He quickly noticed a small, blonde haired woman ambling purposefully down the hallway towards lobby. Most likely not a tourist, probably a member of the hotel staff, a decent place to start figuring out the case in this area.

“Excuse me, miss?” Dean called after her, adorning a mask of polite imposition. She turned to face him, listening intently instead of regarding him with confusion. Definitely an employee. The nametag above her breast confirmed only this. “I don't suppose it would be possible to get a few more blankets for our room? See my travel buddy, he tends to have trouble sleeping if he doesn't get a million blankets.” 

“Oh of course, I'll let someone know,” she responded brightly. “Let us know if you need anything else too. This may be a small town, but we support all forms of relationships around here!” Her face beamed with pride with what she obviously thought was a very tactful response. Dean could feel his stomach drop into his legs. Castiel's company was definitely going to ruin his chances of getting laid.

“Uh, we're not...” Dean choked, “We're, uh, brothers.”

“O-oh,” the woman stammered, “pardon me I'm so sorry! I just assumed...” Her face flooded red as she started fiddling with a chain around her neck, clearly flustered with herself for making such a mistake. 

“It's fine,” Dean sighed, determined to take advantage of the situation, “It happens more often than you'd think.” The words seemed to offer the woman a small amount of comfort. Her cordial smile returned once again, though not nearly as brightly as before. 

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she said, attempting to remedy her misstep. 

“Actually, I couldn't help but see the notices saying this hotel would be closing at the end of the week,”   
Dean remarked. “That wouldn't have anything to do with the murders around here the past few days, would it?” 

The woman, clearly blindsided by the question, was momentarily stunned once again. Only her resolve to provide good customer service managed to gather her expression back into the diplomatic facade. 

“Actually this hotel regularly closes for the season. There's not usually enough business to keep it going. In fact, you're our only guests at the moment.” 

Dean considered her words. Nothing seemed dishonest or out of the ordinary. He decided to try a different approach instead. He looked down and took note of her nametag.

“Aren't you worried about those reports at all, Carol? A pretty lady like you walking around alone is bound to attract some unwanted attention,” Dean mused, voice and posture all charm. As usual, that did the trick and the woman immediately melted into bashful amusement. 

“Oh no not at all,” she smiled. “I really don't think anyone would be after me anyway...”

“And why would you think that?” Dean replied, face shaped into mock surprise. 

“Well it wouldn't really make sense with the rest of the murders at all. Pretty much everyone is convinced that Ms. Diane is going to be the next target.”

Bingo. That was fast.

* * *

It turned out a certain Ms. Diane was part of the same tight knit group of friends in high school that had been all mutilated over the past few days, a clear sign of a lingering grudge if he ever saw one. Dean didn't think much of the cops, but even they had managed to find the connection between the victims in this case. However, with a flash of a badge and an air of confidence, agent Bonham was through the police guard in front of Diane Morris's house and ready to get some answers. 

“I've told you boys a million times” the elderly woman howled, moving from the living room to the kitchen in some half hope that Dean would just leave her alone. “I don't have any idea what this is about! I am too old for this kind of stress!”

Dean recoiled slightly at the woman's anger. This was not going well. 

“Yes Mrs. Morris, but I'm with the FBI and I just need to know if anything strange has happened happened around here lately, maybe flicking electronics or cold spots or anything--”

“Are you crazy?” the woman shrieked, waving her hands wildly over her head. “Are you on drugs, son? There is a serial killer out there and you're asking me about my television? Get out of my house! Get out right now!” Her commands were punctuated with surprisingly violent jabs with a cane that Dean reckoned the woman had somehow pulled out the black hole fueled by her own bitterness. 

“God lady, the hell is wrong with you!” Dean exclaimed. “I'm leaving, I'm leaving!” He backed away slowly with the ground he move being swiftly taken over by the swiftly advancing crone. 

Monsters he could handle, but fucking people man. Fucking people. 

This was one of those jobs best handled by a good old fashioned, all-night stakeout. Making his way back to his beloved impala, he pulled out his phone, figuring as rude as it was for Castiel to shove his number into Dean's stuff, he could at least give him a heads up. On his way out, he waved as the police officers tipped their hands at him in a solute, clearly empathizing with his attempts to glean any information out of old Mrs. Morris. 

It took a couple of rings for Castiel to answer on the other end. 

“Hello? -beep- er, hello?” sounded the confused voice that finally answered. 

“Castiel just... stop pressing buttons for five seconds,” Dean groaned, tired already of Castiel's perpetual war with technology. 

“I'm very sorry Dean, I am just not not quite used to actually using my phone yet,” Castiel resounded entirely too loudly. Dean pulled the phone a few inches from his ear and recalled, thankfully, that they did not have any other occupants in the rooms next to theirs. 

“Inside voices, dude,” Dean admonished for the umpteenthed time over the past few weeks. “Look, I'm not going to be back tonight. Just hang out at the hotel and I'll get back to you later.”

“Dean,” Castiel nagged, voice still slightly too loud for a phone conversation, “what should I do to help you with this?”

“Uh, just watch my stuff,” Dean replied quickly, scanning the road to make sure he hadn't missed anything suspicious on his way in. 

“Yes Dean, I'm sure your stuff is probably in immediate danger,” Castiel replied in loud sarcasm. A sudden click on the other end informed Dean that Castiel had at least managed to master the art of the rude hangup.

* * *

Dean awoke from his involuntary slumber to the all too familiar sounds of screams of pain. The police outside were already dead blood plastered in unsightly splatters across the squad car windows. He mentally cursed himself for only a fraction of a second, resolving to revisit his guilt at a later date. Right now there was a ghost to catch. After fetching an iron crowbar from his trusty multipurposed trunk, he slammed his way in to the home he had made up his mind to watch over. 

Mrs. Morris was already on the floor, knelt in front of of another figure. The house's other intruder was a woman, clothes old and tattered, gray hair matted and lined with anguish. Her stance radiated absolute hostility and the chill of an empty soul. 

“I am so sorry, Bella!” Mrs. Morris wailed from the floor. “We didn't mean to do it! It wasn't supposed to go like that! We were just messing with your brother! It was just supposed to be horseplay!”

If Dean had a nickle for every time he'd heard that one. Dean stepped forward and used his full force to rake the crowbar through the ghoulish figure's being. The next logical steps fell into place as he began the algorithm his body already knew from this situation many times before. Step one, he ran into the kitchen, tearing out cabinet and drawer to find some good old salt. Step two, he took the salt back to the old woman, careful spreading out a solid line encircling himself and her. Step three, figure out how the fuck to get out of this situation yet again. 

“Where is she buried?” Dean demanded from the quivering mass below him. Mrs. Morris gawked at him, then turned who her gaze at the figure that had managed to materialize again at the edge of the salt circle. The old woman just stared, frozen in horror. 

“Diane, if you do not tell me now, she is going to rip you apart,” Dean snarled, pulling up his crowbar again to take another swing at the apparition. 

“She... she was cremated...” Mrs. Morris croaked out. 

Oh that was just his luck. Okay, plan B. 

“Do you know of something important to her? Something she always had that's still around here?” Dean pleaded. Mrs. Morris looked momentarily confused, before her eyes shifted into something that resembled recognition. 

“Her locket!” the woman declared triumphantly. 

“And where is this locket?” Dean barked, knowing already that this was going to get even more difficult. 

“With her granddaughter now. She just moved back as the caretaker to the Willow. Her name is Carol!”

Of fucking course. 

Dean yanked his phone roughly from his pocket, carefully eyeing the ghost watching Mrs. Morris from the edge of the ring. God, he did not want to do this. Stupid ghosts and stupid job and stupid Mrs. Morris and stupid Castiel. 

“Yes?” answered the loud voice, sounding somewhat miffed from the unpleasant conversation earlier and somewhat tired from the late hour. 

“Castiel, you're finally getting what you want,” hissed Dean, while taking another haphazard swing at the ghost.

“Dean are you ok?” Castiel question, clearly picking up the gravity of the situation.

“Listen carefully Castiel,” Dean spoke slowly, “Stay on the line. I need you to go to the hotel management, and find a blonde woman named Carol. I need you to take her necklace, and I need you to burn it. There are lighters and gasoline inside of my duffel.”

If Castiel had any complaints at the bizarre commands, he did not voice them. Dean heard the zipping of the bag, and then harsh breathing of Castiel running through the hallways. 

Dean took another hard swing with the crowbar in his other hand at the ghost once again testing the edges of the barrier. He really wasn't sure how long this was going go hold. 

“Castiel you be careful. As soon as you get a hold of that necklace, you are in danger. You need to burn it quickly,” Dean cautioned into the phone. 

“Yes I know,” Castiel panted back. Castiel hadn't exactly been sitting back the whole time he had been tagging along with Dean. In fact, Dean had been quite surprised at the rate Castiel had been absorbing supernatural information that Dean had inadvertently dropped here and there. 

Voices from the other side of the phone told Dean that Castiel had found what he had been directed to. 

“I am very sorry about this,” he heard from Castiel, before there was the sound of a struggle and screams from a woman as he ripped the thin chain from her neck. Castiel, tactful as always. Dean would have laughed if the situation weren't so dire. 

And then the ghost was gone. 

“Move away!” he heard Castiel yell to the uninvolved caretaker, and then the click of a lighter. 

Then he heard Castiel's yelp of pain and the crunch of plastic. 

“Castiel?” Dean demanded. “Castiel? Castiel are you there?”

He screamed into the phone's speaker, but there was no answer. 

“Shit!” he spat angrily, throwing his phone into the wall. He thrust himself out of the circle, sprinting in the direction of his car. 

Had he just sent the only person who had ever wanted to help him immediately to his death?

* * *

Dean's eternal damnation by his own hand, however, was put on hold. He found Castiel in their room, sitting quietly on his own bed. Beside him laid the crushed remnants of his own barely used cell phone. Dean could see a newly forming bruise just above Castiel's right cheek. 

“I'm sorry I could not call back,” Castiel apologized, voice disturbingly placid. Castiel glanced down at the shattered plastic beside him. “I think I need a new cellphone.” 

With that pokerfaced statement, Dean could not hold his torrent of emotions back anymore. He collapsed into hysterics, laughing into the doorway of their hotel room. 

“It's ok, dude, I probably need a new one too,” he snorted. Castiel frowned at him. 

“I do not see what's so funny, but I believe Carol called the police. We should probably leave.” 

That revelation sobered Dean up instantaneously. Within minutes they were packed up and back on the road, leaving the results of their sloppy operation in their wake.

* * *

“So,” Dean began, voice deceptively casual, “Really, why did you force yourself with me on the highway to hell?”

The question hung in the air, prickling at them both like the night's chill. Dean was well aware that this was the first truly personal question he'd ask the man he treated as a tourist on a grisly vacation. But it was a meaningful question, and it needed to be asked if he was going to be any ounce of trust in this oddball doctor. The significance was not lost upon Castiel as well. Castiel seemed to draw himself up from the leather seat next to Dean, summoning the fortitude to deliver a satisfactory answer. 

“The reason I became a doctor,” Castiel announced, choosing his words as though plucking them from a hot oven, “is because I wanted to save people.” 

“Uh-huh,” Dean nodded affirmatively, hoping that Castiel's explanation was incomplete. Castiel took another breath and dove forward.

“I thought becoming a doctor would give me what I wanted. That's what doctor's do, after all. But it just never really felt...” Castiel paused, “ it just never felt right. And then I met you, Dean, and it just clicked for me. I got to see your life, what you do, what you give and give up for so many people you don't know anything about. Dean, you're amazing,” Castiel breathed. 

That was definitely not what he had expected. 

“Well, I...” Dean sputtered, coughing and attempting to hide the rising heat to his cheeks. 

“What I mean is, this is what I know I want to do. And even if I'm not willing to do it, there aren't many others who would take my place. This is how I want to leave my mark on the world,” he finished definitively. 

Silence filled the small space again, pressing down on both of the car's occupants. Castiel fiddled with the button of his trench-coat, revealing a small amount of embarrassment at his intimate spiel, greatly in contrast with his usual stoic nature. Dean considered the bizarre man beside him, who had taken the supernatural world in stride. In response to having his life turned upside down, Castiel had rose up determined and fighting, ready to shove that world right back. Despite himself, Dean felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You know what, Cas?” Dean said, reaching down to flick on the radio dial, “I know exactly what you mean.” 

The soothing sounds of Led Zeppelin and the palpable contentment of Castiel's relief carried them across the roads to their next job.


	3. Learning

“Are you sure about this, Dean?” Castiel whined from somewhere behind Dean.

The bar was cozy, if not a little cramped. The dark oak paneling and dim lighting made for a comfortable and intimate atmosphere, the bass heavy music just loud enough to isolate conversations across the room. Dean grabbed the arm of Castiel's trench coat, pulling him up to the front of the bar. He motioned to the bartender, an older but still quite attractive woman, ordering two beers from the tap for himself and Castiel. Dean pushed Castiel onto the bar stool next to him, and Castiel shifted uneasily, nearly slipping on his long coat as he tried to get himself situated. 

“Jesus, Cas, you'd think you'd never been to a bar before,” Dean jeered as their two beverages were pushed in front of them. “Drink up.”

Castiel picked up the mug and peered into it, eyeing the contents suspiciously. He leaned forward to smell the brew, but pulled it back quickly, the smell evidently doing nothing to convince him of the appeal of the drink. 

“Dude, it's beer. It's not going to bite you,” Dean scoffed, pushing the mug closer to Castiel. 

Castiel sighed, stowing his look of apprehension, the quickly tipping the mug forward into his mouth. He pulled the glass away, his cheeks filled, then gulped heavily. He looked as if he'd swallowed a bug.

“Well?” smiled Dean, his laughter only just slipping out from behind his words. 

“I don't think I like this drink,” Castiel responded, staring at the beer sourly as if it had personally insulted him. 

“More for me then!” Dean declared cheerily as he grabbed Castiel's mug, tipping the contents into his own mouth. Castiel looked relieved not to have drink looming over him anymore. Dean signaled the bartender over again to make another order. 

“Just give him something really girly,” chuckled Dean, motioning towards Castiel's frown. The bartender smiled and turn to start mixing some sort of pink concoction that Dean was sure would be syrupy sweet. 

“I'm not sure if I want to--” Castiel began, eyeing the spirits going into the brightly tinted glass.

“Cas, just relax. We deserve it once in a while. We've been working cases nonstop for weeks,” Dean chided, returning to his own beer after polishing off Castiel's. 

“We relax at the motels after our jobs...” sulked Castiel. 

“That's sleeping, not relaxing, and we don't get nearly enough of that either,” scolded Dean. Dean heard the bartender chuckle at their slight squabble as she slid the pink concoction in front of Castiel. Castiel regarded this drink with about as much trust as he had given the last one, but relented after a few moments, and took a careful sip of the colorful potion. He swirled his tongue around the liquid a few times, and relief spread across his face as he swallowed easily. 

“This one is much better,” he conceded, reaching to take another sip. 

“When in doubt, there's always the good old Cosmo,” the bartender hummed, taking away Dean's extra empty mug. 

“Thank you very much, ma'am,” Dean said, donning his best charismatic smile and tipping his drink towards the woman. She nodded and moved to another customer waiting at the bar whose gin and tonic had been had been emptied quickly. 

Castiel sat next to him, quiet and content. With the help of the buzz from the Cosmo, Castiel's eagerness to take flight from the bar had toned down considerably. Dean leaned back against the bar counter, glad that the outing had evolved from a struggle to acceptance. He really needed a break. 

Over the course of the past few months, Dean had gleaned little bit and pieces of information about the life and personality of his now partner in crime. The first thing he had learned was that Castiel had the tendency to throw himself headfirst into his work, even when he had been a doctor. Hence why Dean had insisted on them going out to a bar tonight despite Castiel's immediate protests about the job they had to do in this town. Dean knew well enough that constantly immersing yourself in hunting would just lead to insanity later down the line. 

The second thing he had learned was that the woman Dean had discovered lying dead in Castiel's arms was not his wife or lover. In fact, Castiel didn't seem to have any family at all, at least none that he had mentioned, and Dean figured it should have come up by now. Dean often wondered how much of this contributed to Castiel's odd nature. 

The third thing Dean learned was that Castiel's odd nature was the most amusing thing he had encountered in a long time. Castiel's combination of serious personality oblivious charm frequently sent Dean into stomach pains with laughter. Until Castiel had come along, Dean hadn't realized how badly he had needed a friend. 

Dean chugged back the remainder of his second beer, return his mind back to the present. During Dean's absent reverie, Castiel had managed to down most of the drink in front of him, and was pleasantly smiling to himself. It was almost a bit creepy. Dean asked the bartender to prepare another Cosmo for Castiel before turning around on his stool to survey the bar. 

A quick glance around the room and Dean found what he had been looking for quicker than he had hoped. He spotted a dark haired woman eyeing Castiel appreciatively. Dean had surmised he would be able to find someone at the bar. He recognized objectively that Castiel was attractive, in a bookish sense at least. And if anyone needed to unwind, it was Castiel. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean said, nudging Castiel's shoulder and gesturing towards the table,”I think there's someone over there you should meet.” 

Castiel turned towards the woman, and she smiled coyly, pleased she finally had his attention. Castiel just looked perplexed. 

“Do you know her?” Castiel asked, turning back to Dean and tilting his head slightly. 

“Just get over there,” Dean snorted, pushing Castiel off the bar stool. Castiel stumbled on his coat again, and turned to Dean to give him another perturbed stare. Dean just handed Castiel his drink gave him a sly grin. Castiel furrowed his brows, but as he was told, and made his way over to the table. Hopefully his severe expressions didn't change her mind too quickly. 

The woman quickly motioned for Castiel to sit next to her. Dean patted himself on the back at the sight of the two beginning to make conversation, and then turned back to the bar to give Castiel his privacy and get another bit of poison. He raised his glass to signal the bartender, signaling his lack of alcohol. 

“Shot of tequila, if you don't mind,” Dean winked. 

“Playing wingman tonight?” she inquired conversationally as she poured the clear liquid into the small shot glass. 

“Sometimes you gotta take one for the team,” sniffed Dean, as he through back his head and the alcohol burned his throat. 

“You always so generous?” the bartender smiled, leaning against the counter. 

“He deserves it,” Dean responded sincerely. 

“Deserve, maybe,” she lilted, peering over his shoulder. “Desire, I'm not so sure about.” 

Dean took a glance back at the couple. The woman was chatting away at Castiel, who was making a face like someone had just told him he was going to need to stop wearing trench coats. 

“He'll figure it out,” coughed Dean, turning back to the bar. 

“If you say so,” the bartender said, skeptically. Her eyes moved back to Dean and she continued making pleasant conversation. “You two work together?”

“Yep, business partners. He's been doing good work lately, so it was time for a bonus,” Dean responded proudly. At least most of that was true. 

“Your friend seems to be doing a bit better now,” she said, looking over his shoulder. Dean took a peek himself, and saw Castiel talking someone unusually animatedly, making odd gestures with his hands. He felt the corner of his mouth tug up in a half smile at the sight of Castiel's excitement.

“Think he'll get anywhere with that?” she joked, watching for Dean's reaction. 

“He's a little awkward, but I think he could win her over,” Dean concluded.

“Well, what I mean is,” she said carefully, “Are you sure there's even room for her there if he did?” 

“What?” Dean responded, turning back to raise an eyebrow at the woman. She smiled back at him again knowingly, before the expression faded into one of bemusement as she took another look at Castiel. 

“Uh, you might want to check on your buddy,” she giggle, turning back to the bar to go take care of other customers. 

Bracing himself for another one of Castiel's “adventures,” Dean turned back around to the tables. The woman was now standing, moving away from the table looking like she was about to cry. Castiel was just blinking at her, face blank confusion. He said something more, and she hastily reached for her purse still on the table and ran out the bar like she was late for a funeral. 

Dean wasn't sure if he was even surprised. 

“So...” he broke in, sauntering over to Castiel's daze,”what in the hell did you do?” 

Castiel looked up at him, clearly flustered by the whole experience, his cheeks tinted from the Cosmos. “She said she liked my eyes,” he mumbled. 

“And?” grimaced Dean, just waiting to see where this was going. 

“Well she started talking about how her parent's both have eyes the same color as mine. I told her that it was statistically very unlikely, as she had brown eyes. It's all very fascinating. I mean, it is possible, but it would be about as likely as--”

“Cas you did not just tell this woman her daddy was the milkman,” Dean groaned, rubbing his face and feeling amusement creeping in despite himself. 

“No, I didn't,” Castiel affirmed seriously, “but what does that have to do with anything?” 

Dean shoved down the impulse to go into hysterics, instead opting to grab Castiel's arm and drag him back up to the bar. 

“Come on, you heartbreaker, it's time for us to get some more alcohol.” 

Dean recounted the tale of Castiel's lost love to the bartender, much to her amusement. By the end of it, the two of them were nearly on the floor clutching there stomachs, while Castiel sulked, still not understanding what exactly he had done that was so comical to them. However, he loosened up when the woman set down another brightly colored drink, blue this time, in front of Castiel in a gesture of peace.

“A little courage for your next try,” she winked. He took a small sip, but soon downed it quickly, clearly enjoying it as much as the last drink she had chosen for him. 

But the night, instead, was spent between the three of them, exchanging stories and knocking back more drinks. The bartender, named Angie as it turned out, told them all about her fiance who could apparently rival Castiel in obliviousness. The night hadn't followed any of Dean's plans, but it was a pleasant night nonetheless.

* * *

When they arrived back at their motel, Dean pulled Castiel's arm from behind his shoulder and flopped the drunken doctor onto his mattress unceremoniously. Castiel turned out to be quite the lightweight, and had almost fallen into garbage cans on the way back a few times before Dean had forcefully volunteered his help in keeping the man standing. 

Castiel let out a slight groan at his landing, then rolled over, grabbed his pillow, and hugged it to his chest, smiling at it like it was his new best friend. 

“That was more pleasant than I expected it to be,” he confessed, clutching his pillow tight as he sat up to observe Dean shucking off his boots. 

“I told you it would be you lush,” Dean bragged, tossing a boot at Castiel, that bounced uselessly off of the pillow shield. “You should listen to me more.” 

“I listen to everything you said, Dean,” Castiel responded earnestly. Castiel was known to hang on to every word of Dean's occasional lectures in supernatural phenomena. 

“That's not what I meant,” Dean sighed. Sometimes speaking only in the most literal sense was exhausting. 

Castiel just continued to watch Dean's winding down ritual from his mattress perch with his peaceful, contented smile. Dean didn't usually see much besides a deadpanned expression from his partner, but apparently drunk Castiel had a lot more to be happy about. Dean figured this was true for most drunk people. He knew it was true for himself at least. 

Dean stood and turned to check his duffel. He always made sure that his bag was ready before he went to sleep, in case of emergencies. Inside of the bag, his gun and silver bullets were accounted for, as expected. If he was following the clues correctly, he believed they were probably dealing with a werewolf in this town. 

Dean felt the pessimistic air settle around himself. Werewolves were always quite an unpleasant business. A couple of previous encounters had taught him not to dare hoping to finish this job without having to gank someone who had no understanding of what was happening to their own body. 

Dean turned back towards the center of the room and that Castiel had moved. He was now standing directly in front of Dean, only inches away. It seemed drunk Castiel had less of a sense of boundaries even more than sober Castiel. However, before Dean could say anything, Castiel had wrapped his arms around Dean's middle in what resembled a sloppy bear hug. 

“Uh... Cas?” croaked Dean, pulling his arms into the air, not sure what to do with them. “What are you doing?” 

“You looked like you needed a hug,” Castiel answered, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

“Ok, I think you're a bit white girl wasted,” Dean observed as he patted Castiel's back and attempted to carefully remove Castiel's arms from his own sides. 

“I was told hugs make people feel better,” Castiel said as he relinquished his grip without a fight and moved to return to his bed. He plopped back down on the mattress, reuniting himself with his pillow and curling around it in a small ball. 

“Angie told me,” Castiel yawned, taking Dean's unresponsiveness as a cue for more explanation. Castiel sounded as though he was on the edge of drifting to sleep. 

Dean just shook his head at Castiel and grabbed his clothes to head for a quick shower. He really needed to take Castiel to more bars. Maybe if he talked to more people, eventually Castiel would start acting like a normal person. 

Probably not though. Something told Dean that Castiel's personality was beyond help. 

Dean found he didn't actually mind all that much.


	4. Learning part 2

The factory Dean and Castiel had tracked the werewolf to had been rusted over and abandoned to the elements years ago. The metal awning had long since fallen over the gaping entrance way almost like a haphazard blockade, warning trespassing homeless and adventurous adolescents no good was to be found here. The torrent they had driven in to get here had done little to wash away the filth of the place, but had instead turned the ground into gravel and sludge, promising to be an inopportune battle ground for all parties involved. 

Dean parked the Impala in front, cringing at the gunk he had driven his precious baby into. He stepped out into the torrent, examining the mud already caked into the car's sides. He apologized to her and promised a rigorous cleaning after this mess was taken care of. This was no time to be picky about parking spots. 

He circled around to the back of the Impala and popped the trunk, pulling out the necessary weapons for himself, including a gun and a knife for his pocket. He grabbed another silver knife from the back of the trunk, tossing it lightly to Castiel, who had moved beside him to eye over the various pointy objects in the trunk arsenal. 

“Remember, you're backup,” Dean chided, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the rain.

Castiel said nothing, but Dean could almost feel the man rolling his eyes beside him. Instead of inciting another pointless argument, Castiel opted to reach in to grab the small medical kit he had put together months ago. 

“Haven't you ever played a video game, Cas?” Dean prodded jokingly. “The medic goes on the back line. It only makes sense.” 

Castiel pointedly ignored Dean's jibes once again, in that same serious manner he approached the rest of his life with. Castiel had assembled what he considered the most essential supplies for a hunter's first response, and had gotten into the habit of storing it into the pocket of his large coat in case of emergencies. 

Castiel's kit had saved more than one life since it's inception. He was like the angel of the battlefield.

Dean may be reluctant to give Castiel one of his own guns, but he wasn't about to dictate what Castiel might bring of his own, especially when he had already been on the receiving end of the kit's value multiple times already. 

They moved into the building, splashing through the muck and puddles along the way. The inside was large and empty, like a dragon's cavern. The rain had plastered the clothing they wore to their bodies, sticky like a heavy, second skin. Dean felt the ghost of the wind outside brush against his skin and shivered slightly against the chill. 

Between the wheezes of the structure under the storm, ominous breathes of air around them hinted at their absence of solitude. Unconsciously, Dean reached back with his free hand. Within a foot his hand brushed against Castiel's soaked trench-coat, letting him know his partner was close behind, and safe. 

A moment later and Dean was sprawled out into the concrete and dust below them. He braced his shoulder, pushing forward against the mass weighing down on his own body, heavy hostility and hot putrid breath. The pistol was flung uselessly from his hand as a heavy claw slammed down into his wrist, making shallow cuts at the tips of the claws into his skin. 

The monster's head and sharp fangs bared down and Dean quickly moved his free hand up to the throat of the beast, digging his hair into the thick matted fur above him. He winced at at the claws digging slightly deeper into his wrist as the wolf attempted to gain leverage and pushed himself forward into the grip holding back the ripping of Dean's jugular. 

Then Castiel plunged the silver dagger between the beast's shoulder blades, leaning into the hilt and pressing it deep into the muscle. Dean felt the hot, sticky blood dripping down onto his neck and the force of the werewolf suspended at the shock of the pain. Quickly taking advantage of his opening, Dean clumsily threw himself forward to his gun, snatching it where it had flown a foot away. 

A single silver bullet, and the werewolf was dead, the corpse draped inelegantly across Dean's legs.

Dean let out a breathe he hadn't realized he had been holding. No one ever gets used to being assaulted by inhuman creatures. He shifted slightly, moving his hand that was not firmly holding on to a gun to shift the mass holding down his lower half. 

“A little help here, Cas?” Dean grunted, determined not to let go of his weapon again. Castiel ignored Dean's plight, instead kneeling to examine the puncture wounds on his arm. 

“One of these days,” Castiel mused, while gently prodding the wounds, “You're going to give me a gun, and we will be able to avoid some of this... unpleasantness.” 

“Nobody touches my guns until I'm absolutely sure they're not going to shoot me with them,” Dean huffed, surrendering his obediently limp arm to Castiel's ministrations. Castiel was very pushy when it came to taking care of injuries on the battlefield. It was more trouble than it was worth to fight him and try to move around. 

“The wounds are shallow, a small bandage will be sufficient,” Castiel reported, satisfied with Dean's compliance and cooperative examination. Castiel shifted his legs and coat in an attempt to reach his pocket and pull out the med-kit.

The sound of shifting gravel froze both of the men in place. There was movement in the room next to them. 

Castiel immediately reached for the knife buried in the dead werewolf's back, sliding it out of the flesh and spilling more blood onto Dean's clothing, much to Dean's dismay. Another pair of jeans ruined. 

They both moved wordlessly to pull the weight off of Dean's legs, freeing him to take point, gun held in front of himself with measured confidence. 

At the sight in the next room, however, his arm immediately sunk to his side as wave of nausea hit his stomach.

It was Angie, torn apart and gasping for breath that rasped through the holes in her throat. 

Confused at Dean's disarmament, Castiel pushed his shoulder forward to get through the doorway Dean had cleared. His gaze fell on Angie, lying on the ground, clinging to life. His eyes widened with horrifying recognition. He shifted, moving forward and forcefully snatching the med-kit from his own pocket, already opening it in record speed, desperate to save her before it was too late. 

With what he had seen of Castiel's abilities, Dean wouldn't have been surprised if he was able to do it. This thought only made the situation all the more terrible. 

Before Castiel could take two steps in front of him, Dean reached out, grabbing Castiel's arm. Castiel was jolted out of his rush by Dean's anchor, the contents of the opened med-kit spilling out on to the floor, bandages unraveling and small tools bouncing against each other to the clink of cool metal. 

Castiel was already reflexively pulling against the hold and trying to reach his spilled tools. 

“What are you doing?” Castiel snarled, twisting his other arm and trying to pry Dean's grip away. “Let me go! I have to help her now!” 

“Cas, it's too late for her,” Dean breathed, willing himself control of his own emotions. 

“If you let me go I can still save her!” Castiel pleaded, still desperately trying to loosen Dean's iron grip. 

“She's been bitten,” Dean replied, his voice deadened, barely forcing itself level. 

“I don't care! Let me go now!” Castiel insisted, his resistance becoming even more frantic. 

His emotional stability all but drained, Dean forcefully jerked Castiel back with his full strength. Castiel stumbled over his own leg, nearly tumbling to the ground. He managed to barely recover and pull himself upright to see Dean's fury, inches from his own face. 

“We kill monsters,” Dean growled. “She is a monster. You help her now, we just kill her later. You should have thought about what you were signing up for.”

They stared at one another, at a standstill, bodies tensed like wires snapped taut. 

Behind them sounded the gurgle of Angie's dying gasps. 

The tension in Castiel's body was immediately released. His arm hung limply from Dean's grasp with the weight of the world. Dean saw Castiel's eyes darken and his face sink with many more years of experience than he deserved. Dean released his grip gently, his aim already achieved. 

Castiel sunk to the ground, gathering the bits and pieces of his sanity that had scattered into the dirt in the form of medical supplies.

* * *

Dean was not surprised when Castiel spent the next few days avoiding their shared motel room. He couldn't pretend to hide his melancholy from himself, but he wasn't surprised. 

Castiel would pop briefly in and out, usually just to sleep or drop off some kind of food for them. Dean stayed huddled on the laptop, ardently searching for another case as a distraction. The sooner he found one, the sooner he could leave all of this and throw himself into his job again. It always worked before when he had been left behind. 

Normal people, people who hadn't been raised in the business, just never understood the difficulties of hunting. He supposed from the outside, the job could look a bit heroic, maybe even glamorous, but that's not how it truly was. Hunting is a job of pain, ingratitude, and hard decisions. 

Castiel probably saw that now. Dean imagined Castiel was trying to figure out the easiest way to dump him and take off, back to his normal life. It was probably for the best. 

The only thing that was surprising is that it had taken this long for them to run into a difficult hunt. It had been a while since someone had stuck with him this long. 

By the third day, Dean was ready to move on. 

Castiel came in as he had the days before, tugging along a simple meal, probably picked up somewhere locally. The plastic bag rustled as he set it down on the small hotel table in front of Dean's laptop. Castiel turned to exit the hotel room in the same fashion he had the past couple of days, but Dean stopped the logical progression with an awkward cough. 

“I think it's time to get this over with,” Dean spoke solemnly.

Castiel paused in front of the door at Dean's words. He seemed hesitant a moment, before turning back in resignation. 

“Yes, I suppose that would be best,” Castiel sighed, running his hands through his perpetual bedhead. 

“Look, I already know what you're going to say,” Dean began, leaning back in his chair and looking at anything but Castiel's face. He could still feel Castiel's discomfort even without the view of him. 

“If you want to leave you can just go. There's no use beating around the bush with it,” Dean huffed, channeling his disappointment into exasperation at the awkward conversation. 

Castiel blinked. “Why would I want to leave?” 

“Why would you want to-- why wouldn't you-- what?” Dean stammered eloquently as the front legs of his chair slammed onto the floor with his surprise. Was this guy stupid? Did he just miss the part where Dean directly prevented him from saving a life and barked at him while doing so. He'd be willing to wager there was a bruise on Castiel's arm too, where Dean had pulled him forcefully to prevent his escape. 

Dean just stared at him. Castiel's expression shifted from blank confusion to solemn resolution.

“Though, if you would still prefer I leave after all this time, I can--” 

“That's not what I'm saying Cas!” Dean groaned, covering his face with his hand again. “Dude, I practically forced you to watch Angie die. Do you not have any problems with that?” 

“Ah, that was... unfortunate,” Castiel recounted quietly, a pained expression crossing his face. “Letting someone... die goes against everything that I learned in the medical industry. It's not something that comes easily to me.” 

“I'd like to think murder doesn't come easy to many people,” mocked Dean, mania licking at the edges of his voice. 

Castiel winces again, looking betrayed by his own words. “I did not intend to imply... That you...”

Castiel flounders, every word coming out in a flustered choke. On a god day, Dean would describe Castiel's social skills as “robotic.” Right now Castiel looks like a gigantic, disheveled bird, his twitches flapping the large trench-coat around. It's almost amusing. 

“I get it man. It's fucking messed up, I'm aware,” Dean conceded. He sat back again, his spine straightening out against the back of the chair, his left hand idly flicking paint chips off the cheap table with vague, independent neuroticism. 

Castiel's twitching deflated, and he seemed to crumple in on himself. 

“Your decision to hold me back was the correct one,” Castiel deadpanned. “I apologize for my behavior. In the future, I will follow your orders completely. It will not happen again.” 

Over the the past few months Dean had watched Castiel's transformation from civilian to hunter. His confidence in the field and on the job had developed abnormally fast, almost as if, as Castiel himself had said, he was meant to do this. 

Less immediately apparent was Castiel's metamorphosis off the job. When they had first met, Castiel had all the personality of a sterile office. It was a bit off putting if Dean was being perfectly honest. After a few trips across the states with Dean, there had been something else behind the calm sobriety, something Dean couldn't quite place.

If he had to give it his best guess, he would say Castiel was happy. 

However, the look in Castiel's eyes now was a perverted mix of resolution and abdication. The light was gone, as if he had cast it away himself.

It was infuriating. 

Dean launched himself out of the chair and across the room, digging his finger pointedly into Castiel's chest, staring into those infuriatingly empty blue eyes. 

“Don't you ever say that again,” Dean growled, pushing his hand further in what was probably a painful jab. “Don't you ever become ok with just killing people. You think for yourself!”

Dean shoved him away with his palm and rounded back, stomping towards the fridge. “Do you think I have any idea what I'm doing most of the time?” he laughed sardonically, reaching in for a beer, “because I sure as hell don't. Nobody does. There's no handbook here.” 

He threw himself back into his chair, popping open his bottle and taking a long swig. Before lowering it again, he tipped the cold rim against his temple, gesturing in Castiel's direction. 

“You listen to what's in here. You do what you know is right. That's how you stay human,” he spat bitterly. “And you don't let me ever catch you kowtowing to anyone without thinking for yourself, not even me.” 

The light in Castiel's eyes was back. Dean felt his body relax with a tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding onto. 

“I think that was the most antagonistic “believe in myself” speech I've ever received,” Castiel breathed, relief spread clearly across his features. 

And then Castiel smiled, eyes glittering, with almost tangible candor. The grin was straightforward window, right into Castiel's soul. Dean was probably right in his guess about Castiel being happy. 

He felt his heart skip a beat at the sincerity.

He knew he was doomed then.


End file.
